Quirks of the Great Sherlock Holmes
by Spoilers-Sweetie913
Summary: People who don't know Sherlock Holmes like John Watson does would never know some things about the eccentric consulting detective. Heck, John is still finding out some things himself.
1. Books

_This is NOT a sequel to A String of Pearls. It's kinda the same concept, (almost, not really) but Sherlock is his manly self here. I'm thinking this may be 3-5 chapters. Not sure yet._

There are some interesting things about Sherlock Holmes that John could never have guessed applied to the man. One is Sherlock's pet peeves -if it can be called such a boring name- about folding the pages of his books, or any book for that matter.

This one is very strange, in John's opinion. Sherlock will toss his book about the house, not caring where they land. He bends the covers and spines of paperbacks passed their limit, and even used a select few a coaster. Granted, he'd never, ever abuse one of his first editions or classics in this manner, but it still baffles John that Sherlock is so particular about the pages of the book themselves.

John had the unfortunate luck to be on the receiving end of Sherlock's outburst firsthand. John had borrowed one of Sherlock's medical textbooks -from his extensive collection; more extensive than the actual doctor's- to freshen himself up on radial fractures and whatnot. It was a battered copy of a book published, in the 80s most likely. It's cover sported a few coffee and tea rings, and the spine was cracked and crinkled. It was safe to say that this out of date book had seen better days.

John, pausing to take a break from the thrilling pages about gangrene, dogeared the page he was on, and moved to stand from his chair. Sherlock, who was across the room, bent over his -John's- laptop, doing research on this and that, snapped his head up and glared, actually glared, with the intention of instant death to its target and all, at John. John froze in his half-seated position, wondering what on earth he could have done now. Was he too loud for His Majesty to concentrate? He doubted it, but was still worried that he had actually done something to upset the man.

Sherlock's gaze flickered down to the medical text, and then back up to John's. John glanced over at the book, and returned to Sherlock's intense gaze, confused.

Sherlock, noticing John's befuddlement, looked more pointedly at the book and asked, "Just what do you think you're doing to my book?" His deep voice was as intense as his gaze.

John, even more confused than before, looked to the book again, as if it could tell him the answer. As far as he could tell, it wasn't resting in any foul substance, and he had placed it down gently upon the table, far more gently than Sherlock has ever done himself. Eyebrows pinched together, John, again, turned to look at Sherlock questioningly. "What? I haven't done anything to your book."

"You folded the page down to mark your spot. That's sacrilege! That is an insult to the information within those pages; information freely given to you, and you feel that you can mistreat it? No no. Fix. It. Now." Sherlock had begun his diatribe in a deadpan tone of voice, but it had steadily gotten deadly.

John was wondering if he should be concerned for his life in that moment. Sherlock typically never becomes this volatile towards John, especially over something as inane folding down a page in a book. This outburst of calm anger is extremely surprising when connected with Sherlock, the man who claimed his body was just transport. If he were to care for his body as he obviously cares for the pages of these books, John think he would definitely not look as gangly as he does.

Trying to ease some of the tension in the room, John responded, raising his arms in a mock defensive pose, "Alright, alright. No need to get your panties in a bunch, I'll fix your beloved book." John did just that, and finally stood up to head towards the kitchen. "I was just going to put the kettle on. Tea?"

Mood and expression changing quicker than the blink of an eye, Sherlock said, "Yes, I'd love one thanks. No milk."

John, used to this kind of Sherlock -the quicksilver mood changer- rolled his eyes muttering, "Yeah, yeah, I know how you take your tea, you tosser."


	2. Food

_For those who actually are reading this, thanks, and sorry for the extremely late update school and work, you know? They tend to consume a person. Anyways, hope you enjoy._

* * *

Considering all the fuss Sherlock makes about eating during a case and how it will slow his mind, when there's nothing to do, Sherlock actually eats a lot. A surprising amount actually; and he isn't I the least bit picky.

John knew that the genius has to eat everyone in a while, but it shocked him what the man will put in his stomach. John had thought that the posh, up scale, son of a socialite would be highly particular of what food he ingests.

Apparently not.

One time John came home to find the madman making the most disgusting sandwich. Walking into the kitchen to make himself and Sherlock some dinner, Sherlock was retrieving some items from the fridge. Eyebrow at the random assortment of food laden in Sherlock's arms, John pondered what kind of experiment he could possibly be doing with week old ham, relish, questionable tomatoes, left over stir-fry, ketchup, and whole green olives. "What on earth could you be testing that requires the oldest things in our refrigerator?"

Confused, Sherlock set his load on the table next to a plate with bread on it that John hadn't noticed, and turned to face John. "What do you mean? I'm making myself lunch. I didn't think you'd be home so early."

At that, John smirked. "For one thing, Sherlock, it's after six, so a bit late for lunch, and for another, that sandwich will be absolutely disgusting. Do you even know how to make a sandwich?"

Sherlock scoffed, "Of course I know how to make a sandwich. Despite what you think, I am capable of taking care of myself. And this sandwich will taste just fine thanks." With an added eye roll, Sherlock said, "I've made it before."

"You actually eat the products of those things on the table? Those things there?" John asked, incredulously, pointing towards the most likely out-of-date items that would soon become Sherlock's meal. Sherlock nodded, and proceeded to make his sandwich. "No. Nonono." John said, shaking his head. "Don't eat that. Ever. In fact, throw it all away. I have to make a trip to the store this weekend anyways. Just get rid of it. I'm making dinner now. Shepard's Pie."

"Oh good. I'll have some of that too. Haven't had it in ages." Sherlock replied, having finished his god-awful concoction.

"Too? You mean you're actually going to eat that, and then eat some of the Shepard's Pie? No way! You'll be sick after eating whatever you just made." John said, getting started on his dinner, that actual edible dinner, that is.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, and smirked at John, rising to the challenge. John regretted instantly questioning anything that Sherlock did. It never failed to lead to Sherlock declaring a challenge, and John losing. Always. Sherlock won at least 97 percent of the time. Even though John thought that this was part of the 3 percent, he still did not want to deal with a Sherlock that was sulking from losing, and suffering from self-induced food poisoning.

Sherlock took the first bite of his sandwich -if one can call it such- a big bite at that, and officially, the challenge commenced. John groaned, and turned away from his ridiculous flatmate to finish dinner.

The two chit-chatted while Sherlock ate not one, but two of his gross sandwiches, and John put the finishing touches on the Shepard's Pie. John dished himself a large portion, and gave Sherlock a smaller one, thinking that there was no way that he'd finish it. Not with that poison brewing in his stomach.

They continued talking over dinner, John having seconds. Sherlock also having seconds. John thought he was being facetious, and shook his head and sighed. It was going to be a long night.

After finishing his second helping, Sherlock stretched back in his chair all the way from his toes to his fingertips, groaning in satisfaction. John was surprised his didn't throw up right there. Maybe Sherlock could eat anything.

They retired to the living room with mugs of tea, and sat on the sofa to watch whatever movie was playing on the telly.

"Feeling sick?" John asked with only a slight bit of concern entering his voice.

"Not at all. I feel great actually. That last case went on for too long. I hadn't eaten since Monday."

"Monday?! Sherlock that was four days ago. You can't do that to yourself. It's not healthy." John nearly shouted at his friend.

"Oh I'm fine. Don't get your knickers in a twist. I just ate quite a bit, if you will. I'll survive. Eating on a case-"

"Yeah yeah. It slows down your brilliant mind. You won't have a brain if you keep neglecting it the nutrients it needs. But how are you still living. Those sandwiches were vile."

"What? Those? Those were nothing. I've had to go undercover as a homeless man before and eat out of the skips behind restaurants. I was just working with what I had today. The Shepard's Pie was great, though. Thanks."

"Wow. Sherlock Holmes ate, not only a whole meal, but had seconds, and thanked me for it. I'll have to make sure I remember this moment exactly. I feel like I should get my camera to preserve it." John joked, despite the growing warmth he felt in his chest.

Forcing down a blush, Sherlock snapped half-heartedly, "Oh shut up. You've cooked for me before. You know you're good at it."

John just nodded to Sherlock in acknowledgement and sipped his tea, hiding his slightly embarrassed grin.


	3. Text Messaging

Everyone who knows Sherlock Holmes knows that he can be blunter than a hammer when it comes to speaking about anybody's business. He'll spew out facts about someone's love life without batting an eyelash, and will point out quickly whenever someone is displaying the slightest amount of embarrassment or some other emotion. The man can pick up on anything and will tell it how it is.

When it comes to his own emotions, however, that is a different story.

John had been minding his own business on a dreary November evening, reclined on the sofa with his laptop propped on his chest. He was aimlessly browsing the web, trying hard to not be bored. He got enough boredom from Sherlock as it is, he didn't need to start that himself.

Sherlock was in the kitchen, working on some experiment or other, also minding his business. The flat was quiet, the only exceptions being the click of the keys on John's keyboard, Sherlock tutting about the kitchen, and the rain assaulting the earth outside.

The two had been in these relative positions for the better part of three hours. Suddenly, Sherlock swung out of the kitchen, hand clutched to the door frame, using it as his pivoting point. His black mass of curls swaying with the motion of his body. There he paused, hand on the door jamb, perched on the balls of his feet, mouth slightly ajar, and eyes questioning with the slightest amount of confusion.

John waited for Sherlock to say whatever it was that was his mind and continued to mindlessly wander the Internet. After a few moments too many of silence, John glanced up at Sherlock, blonde brows angled upwards expectantly, hoping to spur Sherlock on. However, the look on Sherlock's face made John's eyebrows draw in in slight confusion and a hint of concern. Sherlock had closed his mouth and pulled his lower lip between his teeth, and eyes far away and clouded with a tinge of fear.

John closed his laptop, and sat up, prepared to get off the sofa and get Sherlock's attention. That was rendered unnecessary, though, when John's motion snapped Sherlock out of his daze. He stood up straight, and took two steps forward.

"John, there's something I need to tell you. Something that-"

And he paused. Again. This time frozen to the spot suddenly as if he had been cryogenically preserved. His mouth was open mid-sentence, and even one of his feet was pointed upwards, poised to take another step.

John looked on in extreme confusion, and when Sherlock remained in this state for a couple minutes, John's confusion was immediately replaced with worry. He stood up and walked over to Sherlock.

"Sherlock? Hello? You still there?" He waved a hand in front of Sherlock's eyes, hoping to pull him out of his trance-like state. No answer. John clasped his hands together and bounced his index fingers against his lips, wondering what he should do.

He decided to try to talk him out of it. "What ever you have to say can't be that important if you're just going to fly off to your mind palace in the middle of your sentence."

Silence.

"Now it's just getting a bit weird."

Nothing.

"Alright then. You continue this-" John waved vaguely at Sherlock's still form, "and I'll finish browsing through my email. Good?" No answer. "Good."

John sat back down on the sofa, and reopened his computer. Before Sherlock had done, whatever that was, John had been only half interested in what he was doing; now he could only just stare at the screen and occasionally change the page.

Several minutes later, Sherlock resurfaced with a tiny gasp, turned heel, and headed straight back to the kitchen.

John snapped his head up, tossed his laptop to the side and prepared to follow his infuriating flatmate. "Sherlock. What just happened? You spaced out there, and quite suddenly. What did you need to tell me?"

Sherlock just shook his head and bent over his microscope, trying to look invested in what was happening on the lens.

John, not wanting to argue, and slightly used to Sherlock's bizarre antics, heaved a long-suffering sigh, and plopped back down on the couch, not even going to pretend to look at his computer screen.

Just as John had settled into the fusions comfortably, his phone pinged, announcing a text message.

_I have found myself to be having feelings about you. -SH_

John's jaw dropped and he read and reread the message at least six times. Then another ping, and he had a second message.

_Romantic feelings if that was unclear. You did not respond. -SH_

John shook his head, trying to clear away the fog. _What? he thought. There's absolutely no way. This isn't happening. Time to wake up John, it's not funny. Find out what he means. Find out everything: for how long, why me? Everything._

What came out instead was, "And you couldn't tell me this to my face because...?"

No reply.

John moved to stand, but his phone signaling a third message stopped him.

_Despite what you may believe, I am terrible with confronting my own emotions, and I thought doing it this way would spare me some embarrassment. -SH_

And a fourth:

_I completely understand if you do not feel the same. You do not even have to acknowledge that I said anything. -SH_

John shook his head again, this time partly out of disbelief and partly out of sadness. How could Sherlock think that John could ever not acknowledge a confession of this magnitude?

John stood up and resolutely made his way the kitchen. He paused in the doorway and waited for Sherlock to look up at him. When guarded, vividly blue-green eyes met soft, navy blue ones, John finally spoke, "You nutter," and eradicated the space between them in no time at all and pulled Sherlock down to his level with a gentle hand at the nape of his neck. John didn't close the distance between their faces, their lips, completely. He left and infinitesimal amount of space for Sherlock to solidify his decision.

They had remained eye contact the entire time, but here Sherlock's eyes flickered downward towards John's lips, and back up again. Decision made, Sherlock crashed their lips together with a tilt of his chin. They both sighed into the kiss and took their time acquaint in themselves with the other's sensations and responses, both content to spend a immeasurable amount of time just like this.


	4. Being Upset

_Sorry, once again, for such a late update. Work is awful, schools is terrible, and I'm actually getting things ready so I can go to college (Yay on that one!). Well, I hope you enjoy. *Mwah*_

* * *

Just a few days into the new phase of their relationship, and John discovered that Sherlock can, in fact, be physically affectionate. Such a normal characteristic and it applies to the absolutely insane Sherlock Holmes. However, anything that seems remotely normal when applied to Sherlock is bound to become abnormal.

Although moderately affectionate in day-to-day activities (a kiss on the temple in the mornings, hand holding in cabs, and secret smiles across crime scenes) Sherlock becomes the very definition of clingy whenever he is in a strop. It would normally smother John with how close Sherlock becomes in these times if it were not for the fact that it makes up for all the time Sherlock distances himself.

Today is one of the days that Sherlock has entered into his clingy mode.

They had had a row. Well, it was a one-sided row. And by one-sided, it was Sherlock spouting out his frustrations while John sat good-naturedly on the sofa and listened as Sherlock emptied out his problems.

Sherlock was upset because a client had fired Sherlock from his services. The woman had proved to be even more impatient than the consulting detective, which had scared John just a teensy bit. Sherlock had been on the aristocrat's case for no more than three days when she had proclaimed that it was taking entirely too long to be solved. She had sniffed her displeasure and announced that she was making her way to Scotland Yard because maybe the professionals could handle her case.

To say that John was a bit scared of the woman's impatience, he was, in no small way, absolutely fearful to be around Sherlock after the woman's departure.

Sherlock's face showed zero emotion, but John knew better. Sherlock turned on his heel and began pacing the living room. After a few minutes of silence -tense on John's part for awaiting the tsunami of seething hatred to flow from the internally livid man- Sherlock finally turned to face John and commended speaking his mind.

"Who does she think she is? Go to Scotland Yard? The _professionals_? Doesn't she know who I am?..."

And on and on he prattled, John waiting on the sofa for Sherlock to finally calm down, if he decided to calm down.

After about three more minutes of complaining aloud, Sherlock made his way into his bedroom and slammed the door shut behind him. John, used to Sherlock's antics, didn't blink an eye at the outburst. Instead, he reached beside him for his laptop with a sigh and reclined on the sofa, stretching out his legs in front of him, laptop on his chest.

John had been reading up on a new and interesting medical procedure when Sherlock reemerged from his room. Instead of proceeding to the kitchen to do something horrid to some poor soul's limb like John expected, Sherlock flopped down on top of John, almost upending the laptop onto the floor.

"_Oof_! Sherlock? What are you doing?" John asks, highly confused.

Sherlock didn't answer. At least not with words. He just moaned and placed his head on John's shoulder facing the back of the sofa.

"What's wrong, huh?" John questioned, rubbing his hand up and down Sherlock's back, trying to placate the obviously upset man.

Again Sherlock didn't answer with words. He burrowed his head deeper into John's body between his neck and the sofa cushion beneath. Then he slung his arm around John's middle, right under his armpit.

John conceded that he would not get anything verbal out of Sherlock and resumed browsing the Internet, situating the computer on the other side of Sherlock's possessive arm.

Once John has finished the medical article and checking his email, he set his laptop on the coffee table. With his arms now free, he wrapped them comfortingly around an unnaturally passive Sherlock. He resumed the back-rubbing, contemplating this new side of himself that Sherlock had revealed.

It was nice. Really nice. Great, actually. John has always been one for cuddling. He didn't find it necessary for all his relationships, and had thought that he would never do it again with the cool and professional Sherlock Holmes, but it looks like if Sherlock gets upset enough, he turns into a giant child in need of physical comfort and affection. That is something John will willing offer his help with.


End file.
